


The Fall of the Firstborn

by FanficsbyVe



Series: The Children of Gwyn [1]
Category: Dark Souls (Video Games), Dark Souls II, Dark Souls III
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-03
Updated: 2016-06-19
Packaged: 2018-07-12 00:22:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7076809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FanficsbyVe/pseuds/FanficsbyVe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A history of Gwyn's Firstborn, the one known as the Nameless King and to some as a Warrior of Sunlight from Astora. FINISHED</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The God of War

**Author's Note:**

> This story is based on a mix of in-game lore, implications and fan speculation/theories and is mostly me having fun with all of it. 
> 
> I also realized this story features my first homosexual sex scene. Don't know why it took so long. Probably has to do with the fact that all Soulsborne pairings I so far gravitated towards were either confirmed canon ones (which are all straight) or obvious ones (male protagonist on box art plus female leveling character). That and I ship a lot of gay couples in Undertale, but I just don't feel right writing porn for that fandom, be it gay or straight. However, since Solaire is more or less confirmed to be bisexual, this felt like a good story to put that in.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gwyn's Firstborn receives an ominous message from Velka, the Goddess of Sin.

“One day, the sunlight will be yours.”

Supposedly, those were the words Gwyn spoke when his firstborn child came into this world. According to his mother, Fina, it was the proudest and happiest she had ever seen his father. He had an heir now, a continuation of the dynasty he intended to create. A dynasty that would rule the world, freed from the yoke of the dragons above.

Gwyn had always been an ambitious man, even before he gained his Lord’s Soul and he raised Gwynnant to be much the same. He told him of his plans to rise up against the dragons, to bring disparity to a world marked by endless gray. He never made a secret of his plans for dominion and he imparted on his mindset on his son every day.

Gwyn’s Firstborn was meant to be a warrior, a herald of his father’s glory that would help him acquire a kingdom. He had been trained to use a weapon from the day he could walk, taught the art of battle by the finest warriors. When his father acquired the secret to lightning from the traitor Seath, he too learned how to use it. He became the finest warrior the Gods had ever seen, not even second to Gwyn himself, and his father could not have been more proud. 

When Gwynnant came of age, his father would take him with him into battle. They rose out of the Dark, challenging the dragons for dominion. He fought, fiercely and determined. Where many of his companions fell, he remained standing, slaying any and all dragons in his path. 

Still, as much as he enjoyed battle, there were times when the Firstborn couldn’t help but feel something was wrong. Why, he could not explain. After all, he was a powerful God, the heir of the Lord of Sunlight and beloved by his warriors. He lived a life of glorious combat, slaying worthy foes, yet he could not shake the feeling that something was amiss.

He would not always be a warrior. If… _when_ they would defeat the dragons, his life as a warrior would be over. What purpose would he have afterwards, after the war was won? 

His parents had always told him he were to succeed his father. He himself had believed this to be a noble future once. Yet as he grew older and learned more about the intricacies of politics, the thought started to frighten him. He was a fighter, not a politician, and Gwyn had ensured that it was all he would be. How was he supposed to inherit the sunlight, when the dragons were gone and when his father would abdicate his throne?

Additionally, how many would die before then? For every dragon that fell, threescore of Gwyn’s people were killed in return. He knew people died in wars, but what point was there if victory came at such great a cost? In fact, what did victory even entail?

He fought the dragons, but he was never quite certain why. Most of his childhood and life as a young adult, he had simply done as he was told. His father had told him that dragons were the enemy, a danger foe to overthrow, but never why. As far as he knew, the dragons had seemed rather indifferent to the existence of the Gods until they started killing their kind. 

At first, he had tried to suppress all these questions, thinking them betrayal towards those he cared about. Yet as time went on and his mind became one of an adult, Gwynnant found it increasingly hard to justify the lack of knowledge. He wanted to understand just what he fought for. 

That was why he had wandered away from the celebration tonight. Feeling confident about his victory in the upcoming battle, Gwyn had organized a feast for all his faithful allies and subjects. They feasted on wine and ale and gorged themselves on the meat of the fallen dragons. In the past, he would have happily partaken in such bounty, yet now, he wanted nothing but to be alone.

So he wandered through the darkness, in solitude and in silence. It felt strange to be surrounded by nothing but quiet. Usually, he was surrounded by the sound of lightening, weapons clashing and death. The kind of noise that drowned out any other conscious thought. To stand there, in a calm place where he could afford his thoughts to wander, was almost refreshing.

“Has the luster of food and drink after battle worn off for you, Gwynnant?”

He quickly recognized the voice that spoke to him. “Brooding on an ominous future once more, Velka?”

The Goddess of Sin merely flashed him a wicked grin from under her black hood. It unnerved him, just like everything about her did. He was not the only God to feel that way. 

“I prefer to keep my distance from the debauchery of your ilk. My domain is Sin, but I would rather not revel in it.”

A wry smile was his response. “Good. You would not be considered an honored guest by any measure.”

Velka seemed to care very little about his slight. “Yet you are and still, you are not there. Why, I wonder? Gwyn, Fina, your protégé Ornstein… They must be so disappointed. And especially Faraam...”

That last remark caught him off guard and she chuckled. “Do not worry, I am less petty in what I consider “sin” than the lot you look up to.”

He let out a huff, but she continued nonetheless. “So, why are you here?”

“I did not feel like partaking in the celebration. That is all.”

“Are you perhaps considering no longer partaking in the war as well?”

Gwyn’s Firstborn glared. “Do not be foolish, Goddess of Sin. This war was what I was born to fight in. I am a slayer of dragons, the heir of my father.” 

The Goddess looked at him and huffed. “You are not your father, Gwynnant. We would all be worse off if you were. Where you fight for glory, he fights for power. Where you stand side by side with comrades, he sees servants. He is a creature of greed and that greed will undo us all.”

The God of War could only listen to her in utmost silence. It was the first time he heard another God openly challenge his father and his ideals. What more, they reflected the treacherous thoughts haunting his own mind and somehow it unnerved him to hear them reflected by another.

“You seem awfully certain of that. Some might consider that betrayal, Velka.”

For once, she glared. “Calling the truth “betrayal” will not somehow make it less true. I know where your father’s road will lead and it will bring naught but misery.”

There was an unpleasant, cold finality in her tone and once again, he felt disconcerted. Velka could be a sly creature, full of dark humor and stinging jests. It was rare for her to be this eerily calm and insistent. He couldn’t help but wonder. Did she know something he did not?

“How can you be so certain?”

He sounded a lot less confident than he did before. It concerned him. He didn’t like to be perceived as weak or uncertain. Especially not to a Goddess of whom he was never quite certain where her loyalties lay. 

Yet, when he looked in her jet black eyes, he could not quite ascertain that she was interested in manipulating him at all. There was a kind of sadness in her features, a sense of deep despair that could not be put into words. Her voice bore a similar quality, the veracity of which hard to doubt.

“I have seen things. When I looked into the Flame. Signs of events to come and they are anything but promising. I have seen Sin, so much so that it is nigh unspeakable.”

He looked her over, trying his best to mask his own emotions. “What have you seen?”

She shook her head, her tone growing more morose. “I cannot tell you. What I saw can hardly be described in words. You better see for yourself. Ask Flann the Keeper for an audience. All will become clear…”

She rose to her feet, looking like a living shadow in that black robe of hers. She then disappeared into the dark. Before she reached the place where the Flame no longer reached, she turned to him. She looked him over and a sad smile came onto her face.

“You do not have to become your father, Gwynnant. You are a man now. Choose the path that suits you best.”

Then, just like that, she was gone and he once again found himself alone. Her words, however, kept ringing in his ears. Like an never ending echo, they wormed their way into his mind. They sounded foreboding, threatening…and what scared him most, they sounded like they might indeed be truth.

The moment that thought occurred to him, he started to move. As if chased by some terrible creature, he increased his pace with every step, driven on by an intangible fear. He paced back to his father’s camp as fast as he could, not daring to look back once.

What if Velka’s words were true? What if his father’s actions would lead to something vile and unspeakable? What if Gwyn’s ambitions, and his own, would not bring the splendor they had hoped? What if they only brought death?

He desperately tried to push those thoughts away. He didn’t want to think about it. Not now, not ever. 

His purpose was to secure his father’s victory. That was what he was born to do. To fight for what he knew to be a noble cause. Without that, what else could he do?

He was immensely relieved to reach the celebrations. The cheer and merriment of the many guests drove the nagging questions from his mind once more. He helped himself to some food and drink, mindlessly consuming it as he tried to forget his encounter with the Goddess of Sin and her ill-omened words. 

“Gwynnant! Where were you?”

Any further ponderings were interrupted when he heard Faraam’s voice call out to him. He smiled happily upon seeing him. None among the Gods knew of his true relationship with his fellow God of War and as far as he was concerned, no one had to. Even if he had no disdain of women, he had always been a fiery personality that followed his heart and he certainly intended to do so in this matter.

Even so, he couldn’t bring himself to tell his lover the truth about why he had left. “I wondered away for a while. I needed some fresh air…”

His counterpart nodded and looked around. “More of the same again, is it? Just a lot of drunks and gluttons.”

Gwynnant could only smile in agreement. “Yes. I would rather be somewhere quitter right now.”

His lover grinned. “How about we get out of here then? I can think of much better things to do. Besides dragon slaying.”

Gwyn’s Firstborn instantly perked up. How could he possibly refuse such an offer? Besides, he would gladly forsake any kind of celebration, even one in his honor, if it meant he could be with Faraam instead.

He didn’t protest as his companion took his hand and led him away from the festivities. They walked to a distance away to his abandoned tent. Both of them quickly crawled inside, closing it off so they wouldn’t have an unwanted audience and quickly disrobing.

The moment they were alone, he grabbed hold of Faraam and pulled him into a deep, passionate kiss. The other God answered eagerly, slipping into his lap, his warm and inviting body pressed against his. He might be a man who only valued battle, but only if he could come home to his lover at the end of it.

Eagerly, he reached out and grabs his hips, pulling him closer to him. He presses his tongue into his mouth, only to feel him moan into his as he slid his hands over Faraam’s chest. A soft sigh escaped his mouth, but Gwynnant hadn't even gotten started yet.

Soon, he trailed his lips down to the man’s throat. His teeth grazed his collarbone, before he finally reached his chest. He heard his lover shudder as his mouth replaced one of his hands and he gently started to suck on a nipple. It felt soft and warm, the taste of it addictive, and Faraam’s soft moaning as he licked the hardened nub only increases his excitement. 

Trying his best to ignore the sweet feeling of his lover’s hips grinding against his pelvis, Gwynnant slipped a hand between their bodies. He works his way between the man’s legs, wrapping his hands around his manhood. A smirk passed his lips. He was already getting hard and as the blond-haired male slid his fingers over his most intimate area, it didn't take long for his lover became more vocal.

He increased his pace ever so slowly, watching his lover’s reactions. He couldn't help but note how he tried to thrust against his fingers. By now, he could feel some fluid come out the tip of his member and he could barely withhold a growl as Faraam moved against his own now erect member. He couldn't wait to be inside of him, determined to be the one giving rather than receiving this night, to feel his tight heat around him, but he didn’t want to take him just yet. 

For that, however, he needed at least a few preparations. The last thing he wanted to do was cause his partner pain. Thankfully, Faraam kept some fluids around for such occassions. He quickly reached for those and started to coat his manhood in it. He then offered the same treatment to his partner's opening, working in his fingers to help him adjust, before leaning in to kiss him again.

His lover, however, was an impatient man. Gwynnant sighed as Faraam suddenly pushed back and left him on his back, capturing his mouth in an insistent kiss. The dark-haired male’s hands roam across his chest, nails digging into the skin. The blond God of war groaned moaned as his lover pressed his hot, warm entrance against the tip of his manhood, not even daring to move. 

He could only watch as Faraam guided him between his legs and he feels his partner envelop him inch by inch. His breath hitched and he tried his best not to just move upward, his muscles taut with anticipation. His head spinning from the sensation of their flesh joining, he called on whatever small shred of patience he had, waiting for him to make the first move.

Soon, his lover obliged. He didn’t take his eyes off him, smirking ever so slightly as he moved his hips and kept a slow but steady rhythm. Gwynnant obliged by lying absolutely still, content to let his partner set the tone and allow pleasure to overtake him.

Not that this situation lasted long. Faraam was never a patient lover, but Gwynnant never minded. He reached up to caress the other man, pleased to hear him make soft noises. He could feel his lover tense up, only to force himself down on him harder.

Thought became scarce as Faraam scratched and bit at him, painlessly marking the skin as their lovemaking got more intense. It got Gwynnant’s heart racing, like the best battle he’d ever fought. His fingers dug into his lover’s sides, feeling his lower muscles clench around him and losing himself in bliss.

Faraam looked lovely with his face contorted in pleasure and his body gleaming in sweat. He cried out his name, his breath coming out in short gasps and his chest rising and falling rapidly. It's the single most beautiful thing Gwynnant had seen on this earth and his hands moved over to squeeze his lover’s rear, grabbing it to make him accept every inch of him.

The dark-haired male didn’t think to protest. Her movements grow even more erratic and Gwyn’s Firstborn growled as his inner walls clenched all across his length. He could tell his lover was close and pulled his head close, kissing him hard. He responded eagerly and Gwynnant slipped his hand between their bodies, taking hold of his partner’s manhood and rubbing it firmly.

Faraam groaned into his mouth as he finally went over the edge. His body jerked and trembled, his inner walls clamping down on his manhood with immense force. The additional friction causes the painful knot in his own stomach to tighten and his breath snagged in his throat as he soon followed with his own climax, releasing himself deep within him. 

When the most intense part of their release has subsided, Faraam had curled up against him, head on his chest and slowly drifting asleep. Gwynnant smiled, not caring about the mess they had made, wrapping his arms around his lover, lazily tracing the pads of his fingers across the small of his back, enjoying the peace of the moment. His heart was at peace when he was with his lover and for a moment, the world was a perfect place. 

Yet as he lay there, his desires sated and his mind at ease, Gwynnant couldn’t help but think back to Velka’s words. The Goddess had seemed chillingly serious, practically adamant in her message to him. She had seemed…afraid and that was not something that befitted the Goddess of Sin.

What trick was she trying to play on him? She had to be. After all, what could possibly happen if the dragons were slain that could frighten her so? Just thinking of that was horrifying in itself.

After a while, he curled up against his sleeping partner, reveling in his warmth. It reassured him somewhat and he let his eyes drift shut. He buried his face into Faraam’s shoulder and soon, he was vast asleep.

No, he wouldn’t let Velka lead him astray. He was far too smart to play games with walking portents of doom. Tomorrow would be another day of dragonslaying in his father’s name. He would fulfill his destiny as a warrior God. And he would be victorious.


	2. The Seer of Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Firstborn of Gwyn learns about the First Flame.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The idea of being able to look into the First Flame and see the future is based on the practice of lampadomancy: divination by use of an oil lamp or torch flame. While I do not practice it myself, I am aware it works differently than presented here: it's based on the movement or shape of the flame rather than seeing any images in it. This is merely me having fun with a fantasy universe while somewhat grounding it in reality.

“You wish…to see into the flames?”

Flann’s voice had an air of disbelief to it. He looked Gwyn’s Firstborn up and down. Gwynnant said nothing, allowing the Flame God to make his own conclusions.

The Flame God was not an unattractive man, with deep red hair and golden eyes. Yet the God of War could not help but feel he looked old right now. He looked weary, spread thin, as if tending to the First Flame was eating away at his very soul. It made him wonder. Just what visions did the fire contain for a strong, proud God to look so worn?

“Surely you jest, Gwynnant.”

He shook his head. “No, I wish to see. Please, Flann, grant me this favor.”

He could barely believe the words coming out of his own mouth. A few days ago, he would have laughed at himself. Had the words of a doom-preaching Goddess of Sin truly frightened him so?

Unfortunately, he now realized, they indeed did. More than he cared to admit. For several nights, he had been bereft of sleep, thinking about what Velka had told him. No matter what he did, he could not set those thoughts aside and after several nights, he decided he had no choice. 

He’d had to see for himself.

The Flame God once again looked him over, before nodding. “Very well, but take heed. You may not like what you find.”

He turned around and started walking with the God of War following him. It wasn’t long before they reached the cave where the First Flame lingered. After saying the proper prayers, he went inside and beckoned Gwynnant to follow. The blond-haired man complied, yet as he entered the cave, he couldn’t shake the feeling like he was walking into the opened jaws of a dragon. 

A dragon… That was a good comparison, he thought. It should help him calm down. He had faced dragons before. He knew how to vanquish those…

He had heard many stories about the First Flame, especially from his parents. They talked of a powerful, primal force. An enveloping warmth that birthed potent souls, fit only for those meant to rule the world. His own godhood would not exist, they said, were he not born from two whose souls were found in that fire. The First Flame was a force of good and it was their duty to protect the very thing that gave them power.

Yet here he was, looking upon the Flame, and none of those pleasant sentiments occurred to him. The fire didn’t seem warm or inviting. If anything, the heat had an almost sinister pull to it. It was enticing, almost promising, but he couldn’t help but feel that if he actually got close, the flames would lash out and consume him. It felt more like a predatory animal lying in wait than a benevolent source of power.

He shook off that thought as quick as he could, turning to Flann. “So…how do I look into the flames?”

The red-haired God smiled. “Well, it is not actually “looking”. You must say a prayer and meditate. When your mind and body is at ease, the First Flame will show you things. Images of past, present and future. Things that may or may not be. Yet it can only do so if you focus.”

Gwyn’s Firstborn groaned. He was never a man who had much reference for religious formality or patience, for that matter. Was he really just supposed to sit here vacantly until seeing something? Or was this all just some giant prank Velka was playing on him and got Flann involved in somehow? 

His gut, however, told him that he likely wasn’t so lucky. So he simply sat down, and followed the Flame God’s instructions. He then quietly waited for the other man to leave, before turning back to the fire.

He tried his best to clear his mind, to keep from becoming distracted by the million thoughts that tended to occupy his waking hours. He watched as small flames danced across the cave, swirling and burning in bright oranges, yellows and reds. The sight was quite beautiful, but monotone after a while and it took a lot of him to concentrate. 

It seemed like an eternity before he finally started to see something. At first, he figured it was the onset of boredom, the need to see diversion where there was none. Yet as he continued to stare, the image started to became more coherent and vivid. Amidst the colorful flames, there was something he could not quite put a finger on and yet, he could no longer look away.

He saw dragons, fire personified, flying across a stagnant sky. All of them fell one by one, plagued by lightning, fire and disease. The roaring of the fire sounded a lot like agonized cries, ones that slowly morphed into the voices of many as they gathered around a dark figure, shattering his own soul. Then, he swore he could see his own father, feeding…something to the Flame and suddenly, there was no more gray. 

Soon, he could see impressive towers rise from the earth. A city formed, bathed in sunlight. The sight of it was magnificent, leaving Gwynnant in awe. Was this indeed what the First Flame and the defeat of the dragons would bring them?

Yet then, he saw other things. Fading fire, a sky turning dark. A bleeding sun, followed by ash and embers. The towers crumbled, the dead roamed the earth. All slipped into an endless darkness, in which the world was torn asunder as person upon person threw itself into the First Flame, all desperate to make it burn a little longer before the inevitable end.

Gwyn’s Firstborn watched as this cycle went on endlessly. He felt trapped, practically strangled, as he saw kingdoms rise and fall, The First Flame wane and surge. A never-ending loop of death and rebirth, played out until infinity. 

When he finally tore himself away, he was gasping for breath and, for the first time in his life, shaking. He scrambled to his feet and backed away from the Flame as far as he could. The heat seemed even more intense now, even more dangerous. He had stood fast against dragon fire many times, but he wanted nothing more than put as much distance between him and the First Flame as possible.

He scampered out of the cave as fast as he could, not stopping until he looked upon a gray sky. Only there did he dare to halt for a moment, leaning on his knees. He wiped the sweat of his brow, his mind still racing with what he had seen and the awful meaning of it.

Velka had spoken the truth…

“Did you see what you are looking for?”

The voice of the Flame God had him look up. One look at his face told Gwynnant the red/haired man had seen the exact same thing he did many times over. It wouldn´t surprise him if he himself had gained some of that premature wear now. He could only nod weakly. 

“All that and more. I beg your forgiveness, Flann. I must go speak to my father...”

He then walked off, marching straight to where he knew his father would be. Indeed, he found him looking over a crudely drawn map of the nearby area. He was accompanied by his most loyal voices. He could already make out Seath the Dragon, General Havel, the Four Knights, Faraam, Nito and the Witch of Izalith. Somewhere in the back, he could also see his sister Gwynevere, who mostly minded her own business and was not nearly as involved with the war efforts.

Her eyes lit up upon seeing him. “Gwynnant! You are late! Father has been looking all over for you! He wants to advance the frontline within a few days!”

The smiling face of his beloved younger sister settled him down somewhat, but it didn’t sway him from the task at hand. “Yes, I am sorry. I must speak to Father. Please excuse me…”

With that, he kept walking, gathering all his courage to divulge what he had just found. Gwyn was quite to notice him. His Firstborn could detect a mix of relief and irritation on his face. It didn’t surprise him. His father never liked to wait, not even for his own children.

“Ah, Gwynnant. Where were you off to? We require your forces at the siege.”

A million words raced through the God of War’s mind at that very moment, yet none of them properly conveyed the urgency of what he wanted to say. After all, what did one say when they had just seen the world fall? Still, he knew he could not be silent and decided to start at the beginning.

“Father, I do not know how to tell you this, but I think we must wait for a while before we battle any further.”

Instantly, the expressions of everyone in the room changed. They stared at the God of War wide-eyed, as if he had just damned his father to eternal oblivion. Few men ever contradicted an order made by Gwyn and the Lord of Sunlight himself expressed the most surprise of all. 

“Whatever do you mean, my son?”

Gwynnant quickly considered his options. He was already certain mentioning Velka would not help his case. His father despised the Goddess of Sin and would stop listening the moment he spoke her name. He tried his best to think strategically while making his case.

“Father, I spoke to Flann. I had him look into the First Flame. The prospects for this battle are not good.”

Instantly, he had his father’s attention. “Does he think we cannot win? I usually put no stock in him, but so far his jumbled scrying has been remarkably accurate.”

Gwyn’s Firstborn shook his head. “No, we are very likely to win. Yet the price of it might be too steep.”

By now, Faraam was giving him a weird look. “There are always casualties in war, Gwynnant. You would know that better than anyone else.”

The God of War tried his best to curb his impatience. “I _am_ aware of that, Faraam, but no war benefits from a hollow victory. And I think we might lose a whole lot more than we can afford if we keep this up.”

He could practically sense the skepticism coming at him from all directions. Still, he had come too far to back out now. He had to say his piece and avert the terrible future somehow. 

“Father. I have seen what might happen if we win. What may become of us. The First Flame… It will bring us naught but misery. I have seen it with my own eyes.” 

Right away, he was rewarded with the most unsettling look he had ever seen on his father’s face. It was a mix of puzzlement and anger, which bothered him. He was used to being his father’s golden child and often blindly trusted his sire’s judgment. Was he truly this displeased if his child publically challenging his views for once? When Gwyn finally spoke, his Firstborn could hear the disdain in it.

“How could the Flame undo us? It gave us our Souls, our power. Only a fool would reject such gifts.”

Everyone at the table quickly nodded, noisily agreeing with their Lord, but Gwynnant stood firm. “The Flame will fade, Father. Where the gray is eternal, flames extinguish. If we tie a world to its power, than it sure to fall. How much is your power worth to you if it will only end in tragedy?”

Out of nowhere, a fist slammed on the table. With one look at his father, Gwyn could see fire burning in the man’s eyes, bright enough to rival the First Flame itself. He stomped towards his older sun like a raging bull, his voice like thunder. 

“Are you saying I am not powerful enough to rule my keep? That I cannot contain a mere Flame? Keep wagging that insolent tongue and you will find out I am quite capable to rule. You, as my son, should know better than to challenge my in front of my subordinates! Leave, Gwynnant! Get out of my sight! Go to your tent! I will summon you again to discuss this matter when I see fit!”

For a second, the God of War was stunned. While he didn’t blame his father for thinking he had a terrible sense of timing, the fact he was treated like a petulant child didn’t sit well with him. This was a matter of life and death, for both Gwyn and all those who served him. He had to listen.

“But Father, I have seen the world end. You cannot ign…”

Gwyn only raised his voice in anger. “I said, you are dismissed. We will speak on this matter later. Preferably when you have found your senses again. Now go.”

With those words, he turned his back to him and several pairs of judging eyes finally chased Gwynnant from his father’s tent. Furious and humiliated, he stood outside for a moment and bristled. Yet with his anger also came sadness. 

Why had his father been so incensed? Because he had spoken out against him? He only wished the best for his father, his fellows Gods and the ones they ruled over. He had done nothing but readily serve his sire all these years. Surely his words of concern were not a threat… Was Gwyn truly so proud that any suggestion of failure was seen as an act of betrayal?

Shocked and confused, he then made his way to his tent. Part of him was embarrassed that he heeded his father’s demeaning command. Still, he knew he needed his rest. He had to convince his father some way or another. This time, he had to choose his words carefully.

Unfortunately, despite his best intentions, when Gwyn finally summoned him, the second meeting had been equally disastrous. He tried his best to convince his father of the danger, to relay to him what he had seen. The Lord of Sunlight would have none of it. He simply demanded an apology for his act of publically questioning him.

At that point, Gwynnant had become more forceful. He had told his father that his actions might end the world as they knew it. That they had to find another solution if they wished for an enduring empire. That he knew this truth as sure was the Flame was real and that he could ask Flann if he wanted to confirm it. His father had simply mocked him for putting any stock in prophecies, claiming that Gods should make them and not abide by them. They would win the world and create legends, usurping the tyrants who currently claimed it.

Now more agitated than ever, it finally occurred to the God of War to ask why they even fought the dragons. Certainly, they ruled these lands and shaped it. Yet from the stories his mother and other Gods told him, he had surmised they cared little about their existence, if at all, and had left them in peace. Why was his father even challenging them for dominion if there had been no conflict previously? Was this truly about the Lords securing their survival or was this simply all about a lust for power?

That was the spark that set off all the powder kegs. After that, there was nothing more than infuriated shouting between them and accusations flying back and forth. Gwyn called his son a traitor. Gwynnant shot back that his father was selfish and only obsessed with a throne to sit on. In the end, neither man budged an inch and the God of War had left of his own accord, going back to his quarters and refusing to come out.

He had kept that up for a good five days now, which was already much longer than most people thought he could muster the patience for. Clearly, his stubbornness was starting to bother those close to him as well. Faraam had not come to his bed, more or less taking over his duty as commander, and his protégé Ornstein politely avoided him. His mother would occasionally send him admonishing letters, begging him to make things right with his father. So far, however, he had not been inclined to do so.

Naturally, his sheer gal to defy his father’s wishes didn’t sit so well with the Lord of Sunlight. Gwyn’s temper was flaring quite quickly and those around him were feeling the heat. So when Ornstein did finally deem to visit him, Gwynnant already knew why.

He simply led him to a nearby table, poured the man a cup of wine and sat back. “What terms did my father sent you with?”

The lion knight stopped in his tracks and while he didn’t flinch, Gwyn’s Firstborn knew he was right. “I know you are loyal to Gwyn first and to me second. Let us not waste time with pleasantries when we both know the true object of this conversation.”

Realizing his mentor was right, Ornstein sighed. “Your father wishes to have you by his side again, Gwynnant. He is even willing to overlook the incident from a few days ago. All he asks is a heartfelt apology.”

The God of War huffed. “Is he willing to listen to what I have to say about his campaign?”

The silence on the knight’s part was all he needed. “So he is not. Then you know what my answer to his terms will be.”

He could practically see the shorter man cringe. It mattered little to him. He could no longer mindlessly participate in this endeavor when he knew it would bring so much destruction. If Gwyn wasn’t at least willing to hear his case, he would stand firm.

“Gwynnant, your father loves you. You are the warrior he trusts most. Please don’t squander his affections over some blurry image in some fire.”

A glare was what the knight got for an answer. “You are more than willing to draw your strength from the Flame, yet you are very quick to doubt it when it shows things you dislike, Ornstein.”

The knight’s green eyes widened, but he quickly recovered. “Why would we want to know all our morrows? Nothing good could come of that. We are a powerful, inventive people. We will find a way to maintain our new world. I am certain of it.”

The God of War looked at his apprentice. How calm and self-assured he sounded as he said those words. He wanted so badly to believe them. Yet with what he had seen, he no longer could. 

“I am not so certain. That is why I cannot acquiesce.”

He got up, walked away from the table and started to head for the entrance of the tent. He had said all there was to say and seeing how Ornstein could not be swayed, there was no point to talking any more. The knight seemed anything but pleased with this development.

“Where are you going?”

Gwynnant glanced over his shoulder. “I am going to scout enemy territory. I can use the distraction…”

He left the tent without looking back a second time. He took his weapons and kept walking, not quite sure about a destination. Not that it mattered much. All he wanted right now was to simply be away from the camp. To go somewhere, anywhere, where he could think on the horrible future foretold to him and if there was some way, any way, to avert it.


	3. The Dragonrider

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gwynnant learns about dragonkind.

The lake Gwynnant looked upon seemed endless. It stretched as far as the eye could see, nothing but a threatening blue with Archtrees reaching up to the sky, so high he could not see the canopy. The place was strange and ancient yet strangely peaceful, hidden away and accessible only through the roots of a huge, withered hollow tree.

The God of War sat down in the odd white sand, running it to his fingers. He frowned. It was remarkably fine material, more like ash. Everything about the location seemed ancient, prehistoric even… He felt like he had stepped inside the cradle of all life and that thought had him grow silent with nothing but reverence.

In the distance, he swore he could hear noises. He peered across the water, up the infinite trees. His eyes narrowed when he realized the sound was one he knew all too well. 

Dragon wings. 

Gwynnant quickly got back to his feet, gripping his spear. He quickly scanned his immediate environment, focusing on the direction from which the noise came. His enemies were here and battle might by imminent.

For a moment, he wondered what he should do. He didn’t know how many dragons were approaching, how strong they were and how deep inside their territory he was. Should he risk a fight at all or was it wiser to find a place to hide, observe whatever he witnessed and then quietly slip away?

The warrior in him bristled at that last one, but the strategist in him spoke louder. The second he thought that the coast was clear, he turned and started sprinting to the tree he came from. His feet thudded across the sand, his movements seriously hampered, but he stubbornly kept moving, determined to get to safety.

Just then, the sky grew dark and a large shadow glided over him. The earth shook as a gigantic draconian being landed in the sand in front of him. A hellish scream tore from the being’s maw and its blue, slit eyes looked in his direction.

The God of War stood frozen, his mind going a mile per minute as he assessed the creature. It wasn’t a dragon, he realized. It lacked the size and front legs. Rather, it was a drake, one of their smaller cousins. He took a deep breath and readied his spear. He could easily take on a single drake. 

Gwynnant readied himself, staying motionless as he awaited his chance to strike. He followed the drake’s every movement, watching it blink and sniff the air. It seemed to stare into its very soul, deep rumbles coming from its throat, only to then turn around and scamper away from him, heading to the lakeside. 

Gwyn’s Firstborn stood there, completely dumbstruck for a moment. Most draconian species would attack him on sight. Yet this one more or less ignored him, even turned its back on him. Apart from its initial curiosity, it seemed to have no further interest in him at all.

Remaining where he was, he turned to where the creature sat. It was relatively small, he realized, and its body looked like it still needed to grow into full adulthood. That thought explained a lot. It was likely still a very young drake and hadn’t yet learned to see creatures like him as a threat. 

That thought put him somewhat at ease. He lowered his weapon as he considered his options. The animal would be an easy kill, no doubt of that. Still, he found him disliking the idea of attacking it if it had no quarrel with him. He was a warrior, not an immoral killer. Besides, they were not exactly on the battlefield.

He continued to observe the drake as it seemed to stare at the water. Its blue eyes stares into its depths, seemingly looking for something Gwynnant could not see. Overtaken by curiosity now, he abandoned all thought of leaving quietly and stepped up to the being in order to see what it would do.

Suddenly, its jaws opened and he could see flame crackle deep within the animal’s throat. He took a step back, looking around for a place to hide. Yet just as he was about to run, the drake released a powerful surge of fire at the water. It then plunged its face in, violently thrashing around for a while, before coming back up with a disappointed snarl.

The God of War smiled, catching on to what the creature was doing. It was hunting for food, whatever was in the water edible to him. He quietly stored that information. He was quite hungry himself and if whatever was in there was good enough for a drake, it was good enough for him. 

Having made that decision, he walked up to the waterside himself and peered into it. The water was immensely dark, but he could still detect large, serpent-like and teethed scaled creatures swimming along the banks. He recognized these supposed water snakes from his father’s banquets and set about capturing some for his supper. 

It didn’t take long before he had acquired some food. Spearing the water snakes on his weapon and roasting them with lightning, he made himself quite the proper meal. His swift reflexes and sharp eye made catching his prey easy enough and it soon appeared he was not the only one aware of it. 

It was not long before the creature, the Stormdrake as he decided to call it, sought out his company again. It sidled up next to him, cocking its head, before making odd purring noises. It stared back at him and at the water snakes he was eating as it did. 

Gwynnant could barely contain his laughter when he realized the creature was, in fact, begging him for food. Deciding to be generous and in order to maintain the peace, he brought his spear to the animal’s mouth, offering it food. It gratefully took it, eating to its heart’s content, before finally nestling in the ash-like sand beside him to digest the meal.

As it lay there, the God of War couldn’t help but stare at it. He had never been so close to draconian beings without them trying to kill him. He had hardly had the chance to properly study these creatures and get a good look at them. As such, he couldn’t resist the opportunity to do so now. 

The Stormdrake was a fine, and rather unique, creature indeed. Unlike most of its draconian brethren, it had feathers as well as scales and its head had some birdlike features as well. It had larger wings than most dragons and Gwynnant wondered if perhaps its bones were hollow, like an actual bird. He couldn’t tell for certain: all he knew was that this beast was truly splendid. 

Still, the truce that had seemingly been brokered between him and the drake could only last for so long. Suddenly, the dark water all around him started to ripple, before churning violently. A large object started to rise to the surface, shrieking and growling as it did.

Instantly, the drake stirred and let out an alarmed snarl. It tried to get on his hind legs and spread its wings. Yet before it could even get off the ground, a monstrous creature rose from the depths, its multiple heads lunging at the drake. The feathered being shrieked as one of the heads bit down on its neck, threatening to drag it into the water as the other heads descended on it.

The God of War didn’t hesitate. He raised his weapon and aimed a giant bolt of lightning at the emerging hydra. It hit the serpent square in the head that had bit down on the young Stormdrake and it let go, instead turning its direction onto the young man. All heads homed in on him, hissing and roaring before flying in his direction in a rain of snapping teeth. 

Gwynnant rapidly dodged the attacks, slashing at the necks of the hydra and severing the heads. The serpent let out blood-curdling screams as he continued to hit it with lightning, relentlessly attacking until it finally disappeared under the surface once more. 

Satisfied to have scared off the abomination, he then turned to the drake. It was limping and frightened and its wounds were pouring blood. He wasn’t sure if the being would live if they were not tended to. 

That thought caught him off guard. Why should he help the being? If it lived, it was certainly going to grow up into a creature that was dead set on killing his kind. 

Yet then he realized, that was not yet the case. It was still young and they were currently on neutral ground. If there was one thing he respected as a warrior, it were the rules of honorable engagement. This drake was innocent and injured and it was his duty to make certain it was looked after. 

He grimaced at that thought. He has few tools at his disposal to help the creature, but he figured he could use the heat his lightning generate to perhaps cauterize the wounds and seal them shut. He had done that to himself or his warriors many times in battle. The question remained, however, if a dangerous wild creature like the Stormdrake would be willing to let him do that. 

Still, seeing that the drake had shown to be intelligent and willing to trust him, he felt he had to at least try. Taking his weapon, he cautiously approached it, his mind racing on how to do this without getting injured or killed himself. 

The Stormdrake saw him coming and responded immediately. It let out panicked screeches and snarls, trying to scramble away from him and gathering fire in its throat. Gwynnant could feel panic rising from the pit of his stomach and tried to do his best to keep his cool, thinking about how he could communicate that he wanted to help.

“Calm down. Please, calm down. I beg of you.”

He had to shout to rise above the noise the animal made. When he did, however, the drake immediately stilled. It looked at him, blinking a few times and ceased its aggression. For no other reason than that it seemed to achieve something, the God of War continued talking.

“You are hurt. I need to stop the bleeding.”

He watched almost in shock as the creature stared at its own wounds and then back at him. It seemed to hesitate for a moment and Gwyn’s Firstborn found himself somewhat unnerved. He knew dragonkind to be an intelligent species. Yet never in his lifetime had he thought they were intelligent enough to understand speech.

“You…understand me. Do you not?”

The drake bowed its head, in ascent to his statement. It then demonstrated this validation by walking up to him and lying down next to him. It practically seemed to motion him to climb on, to closer inspect what was ailing it. 

Taking a deep breath, Gwynnant decided to risk it. Using the feathers on the creature’s body, he climbed up to its shoulders, making its way over to the neck. The wounds were still gushing and he knew every second counted. Still, seeing how his patient of sorts could be communicated with, he felt he should do just that before he acted.

“Now, I’m going to seal the wound shut. It is going to hurt. Please try to hold still, if you can.”

He swore it let out an almost dismayed huff, but it didn’t protest. It lay down and closed its eyes, taking deep breaths. Deciding it was best not to torture the being for too long, the God of War worked quickly. He heated up the tip of his spear with lightning and then, in one swift motion, pressed it down on the wound. 

The drake let out a horrified, pained shriek the moment he did. He could hear its giant claws dig into the sand and its tail sweeping violently. Still, it obeyed his order not to move its body too much. Within seconds, the wounds were sealed shut and Gwynnant was pleased to see the hydra had not managed to bite down on any crucial veins. 

His next step was cleaning the wound. He slid back off the creature and ran to the waterside. Tearing off part of his own tunic, he dipped it in the lake and went back to mop up the spilled blood. He cared little when the rich fabric was stained with crimson, instead taking pride in his work and ability to save this remarkable creature’s life. His uncle McLoyf, the God of Drink and Medicine, would have been proud.

The Stormdrake was an exemplary patient as well. The creature remained calm and cooperative as he helped it, occasionally lifting its head to look what he was doing but letting him proceed. When he told the being he was done, it let out a sigh that sounded a lot like relief and rested its head in the sand. Gwyn’s Firstborn chuckled, gently petting the creature where it wasn’t wounded.

“You did well, Stormdrake. You did really well.”

The drake let out another sigh, closing its eyes for a moment. As it did not protest, Gwynnant decided to stay where he was, seated on the being’s giant shoulder blades. It was with no small amount of excitement that he noted that no other God had ever been this close to dragonkind, able to run their hands over the scales and feel their massive hearts pounding in their ribcage. It was an exhilarating experience and he was glad he hadn’t killed the creature on sight.

Then, out of nowhere, the Stormdrake started to spread its wings. The moment the sound hit his ears, the God of War figured the creature had had enough of his company. He chuckled, not quite blaming it after getting hot iron pressed to its skin, and prepared to dismount.

Yet before he could do so, the creature acted. In a single fluid motion, it took off, leaping into the air at breakneck speed. On instinct, Gwyn’s Firstborn grabbed hold of its feathers, desperate not to fall to his death and hung on with a death grip, eyes screwed shut, as air swished past his face and he could feel pressure change as the being climbed ever higher into the sky.

It was only after several minutes that he dared to open his eyes again and look down. His jaw fell open at the sight. They were gliding hundreds of feet above the lake, the island they were previously on nothing but a tiny speck of white. He was surrounded by archtrees on all sides, the drake maneuvering through them with utmost precision. He saw the world as only a dragon could, far above where birds could fly and no one to catch him if he fell.

It should have frightened him. To be like this, at the Stormdrake’s mercy, with the danger to plummet to his death should scare him out of his wits. Yet all he felt that very moment was the rapid beating of his own heart, the adrenaline pumping through his veins. He felt weightless and powerful. He felt overwhelmed, yet oddly free.

Only a single thought went through his head that moment. One thing that took precedence over anything else. He was the first God to have ever ridden a dragon.

It seemed that the drake understood this sentiment as well. It turned its gaze to him briefly, making what sounded like friendly noises. It then continued to fly around, rapidly diving and ascending, seemingly eager to show his passenger just what he was capable of.

Gwynnant no longer protested. Why should he? He was going where no one else had gone before, experiencing something new and eye opening. What else could he do but simply revel in the majestic strength of this beast, that dominated the skies like no other creature could?

It seemed like hours before the Stormdrake finally grew tired. When it did, it rose even higher into the air and the God of War braced himself as it landed at the top of an archtree. There, it stilled to let him finally dismount and then curled at what looked like a giant nest made of leaves and branches. 

Gwyn’s Firstborn took the opportunity to look around. He had never seen the tops of the ancient trees before, or how dragons lived for that matter. Still coming off the high that the flight had brought him, he regarded everything around him with utmost fascination. It was the first time he came across something that interested him other than arms and combat and he happily took in every second of it.

The drake seemed to regard him with amused curiosity as he did, but otherwise left him t do as he pleased. Gwynnant gratefully took that opportunity and simply watched as other drakes and dragons landed in this tree and the ones surrounding it, curling up in their own nests to roost. The few that landed on his tree seemed to eye him with suspicion, but quickly settled once the Stormdrake made several reassuring sounds.

The God of War watched the exchange in fascination. While the dragons did not speak in the same way he did, he had the feeling their communication was a lot more complex than his brethren had initially assumed. They even seemed to understand him when he spoke. These were clearly not the barbaric, animalistic monsters his father claimed they were. 

In fact, the dragons didn’t seem very interested in harming him at all, let alone eating him. As long as he simply walked around investigating things, leaving them in peace, they seemed quite fine with his presence in their nest. Some of the younger ones in particular were more curious than anything, excitedly coming up to him and examining him. He found himself delighting in their company, determined to learn as much as he could about these fascinating beings.

When the Stormdrake finally brought him down to the small island again at the end of the day, Gwynnant found himself notably wiser. He had learned a lot about dragondkind, their history and customs. Even with the language barrier, many of them had seemed interested in answering his questions and he had come away with a lot more knowledge about the enemy than any of his father’s scouts ever did.

Although, he now started to doubt that “enemy” was the appropriate word for these creatures. They were a lot more intelligent than he previously thought and far less war hungry. Perhaps, he realized, that was what the drake was trying to accomplish. It tried to allow him to learn more, as a way to repay him for saving it.

He nodded at the Stormdrake as it allowed him to dismount on the sandy shore, speaking to it respectfully. “Thank you, drake. For sharing this gift with me.”

The creature bowed its head in response, before flying off, returning to its nest in those endlessly tall trees. He sighed, thinking it was about time to head home as well. Especially because he now had a goal in mind.

If the dragons were not like what the Gods imagined and on their level of intelligence, perhaps there needn’t be a war. It was possible that another solution could be found, one where Gods and dragonkind could live together in harmony. If so, then the First Flame would never need to be harnessed and the things he had seen might not come to pass. 

“Perhaps… Perhaps, the future I saw can still be averted.”


	4. The Warrior of Sunlight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gwynnant makes the ultimate sacrifice.

History was written by the winners, Gwyn had once said.

Gwynnant had believed that and oftentimes, he had wondered what would be written to him once the war was over. Would they write that he fought valiantly? That he was a loyal soldier and his father’s best warrior? That he would be a worthy heir of Sunlight?

That would have been likely, had he stayed on his course. Now, however, he could only imagine what the annals of history would say about him. They’d paint him a traitor. A coward. A wayward son who threw away his life to support the enemy. If they would write anything about him at all, at least. His crime was so severe, so unspeakable, that perhaps his memory would be wiped from history entirely.

He had not wanted to betray the Gods. When he learned about the true nature of the dragons, he had wanted nothing more than simply broker a truce between both factions. Now more than ever convinced that the vision in the Flame foretold doom, he knew this war could not be won through weapons. Only diplomacy could save them and even if that was not his strongest quality, it was the route he should take.

Faraam had been the first he’d confided in. After several visits to Ash Lake, he’d told him of his studies on dragonkind and of the male Stormdrake he’d befriended. He tried to explain to his lover that the creatures did not see their attacks as a challenge for dominance so much as a threat to their existence. He tried to convince him that it was perhaps much better to establish a truce, rather than continue their current campaign. 

His companion had not wanted to hear it. Instead, he praised him for lulling the beasts into a false sense of trust and learning about their habits. He had instead interrogated him on the whereabouts of the dragons and insisted he should go to his father with the information. When Gwynnant refused to do so, he had dragged him to Gwyn and told him this was his chance to win back his father’s affections.

The Lord of Sunlight was equally eager for the wrong reasons. His frustration grew the longer the God of War had remained tight-lipped about the location, insisting he’d share information useful to his war. It swiftly grew to anger when his son hammered on a peaceful solution, insisting this war was unnecessary and the dragons would be open to peace negotiations. He once again stated that the First Flame should be left alone, as harnessing its power without comprehending it might destroy them all in the long run.

Gwyn didn’t want to hear it. He called his son weak and a coward. He asked him since when he had lost his will to fight, that a God of War who refused to wage one was like a man without a manhood. He mocked his newly acquired love for the dragons and his hesitance to utilize the First Flame. How, he wondered, after all he’d done had he raised a child with such a lack of ambition?

That had been the last straw for Gwynnant. Where he had previously done his best to remain diplomatic, he now decided to no longer mince his words when it came to his father’s ambition. He called him out for being power hungry, for having a traitor like Seath whispering in his ear, for his innate desire to conquer and destroy and his demand for unquestioning obedience. What kind of man would demand sacrifices in his name, built statues of himself to be worshipped in Anor Londo and was willing to shed blood for no other reason than his own glory? War was an inevitable fact of life, but even as the God embodying it, he abhorred unnecessary carnage. Especially not for the ego of a warlord who was willing to destroy the world and harness a devastating force just to sit on a throne.

Before his swiftly reddening father could even respond, he had then walked off, never to return to the commander’s tent ever again. He had then turned to the other Gods, pleading with them to listen. He had tried to tell them of the danger of the First Flame, to make them see reason. He besieged them to take a stand against Gwyn, to help him convince the Lord of Sunlight to stand down and parlay with the opposition.

None had listened. Some laughed at him and his foolish notions, Others, such as Flann, were too afraid to speak up for fear of their lord’s wrath. Several saw his reasoning but remained loyal on principle. Particularly that last one hurt him deeply, especially when Faraam, Ornstein and even his mother and sister forsook him. Velka was nowhere to be found. It was not long before Gwynnant realized he stood alone and that he was swiftly becoming a pariah within his own community.

It was only then that treachery finally become a tangible thought to him. Not to destroy those who opposed him; he more and more realized Velka was right in saying he was not like his father. It was rather a last resort, his last chance to show how serious the matter was. He had always been a man of action, not words and he could do nothing else but follow that credo when it came to this matter.

So that was exactly what he did. He sided with the dragons, fighting many battles alongside his companion the Stormdrake. Every skirmish until the end, he would beg his father and allies to lay down their arms, to find a peaceful solution to a conflict that needn’t be. He had known even then his father would likely be deaf to his pleas and unfortunately, he was proven right. 

He should have died there, on the battlefield along with the dragons. Seath, that monstrous traitor, had divulged the secret of their weakness and with that in hand, Gwyn had become unstoppable. With lightning, fire and disease, he and his allies slayed his companions, until there was nothing left but mountains of corpses. 

He would have been among them too. He had always loved stories of warriors who stood their ground and died for what they believed in. Stories of three hundred warriors facing an entire army or a single berserker guarding a bridge alone for days. If he was going to die, possibly by his sire’s hand, he wanted to go with a weapon in his hand, fighting for a good cause. Better an honorable death in combat than fleeing like a coward.

The Stormdrake, however, had decided differently. As a drake, he lacked the vulnerability of his dragon cousins. As he fought to the death, raising his weapon against the ones he considered his family and loved ones, he had intervened and hurled lightning at his foes. He had then grabbed Gwynnant despite his protests and flown off with him, along with several other surviving drakes and dragons. 

Back then, he had been furious with the creature for denying him a glorious, meaningful end. Yet in time, he realized that he had simply acted out of love. He didn’t want to lose him and with so many of its kind dead, he needed all the friends he could get. He was more loyal to the God of War than any of the Gods had been and in the end, he could not do anything else but forgive him.

Besides, the place where they had settled, Archdragon Peak, was not a bad home. It was far away from Anor Londo, Lordran and any other known kingdom. Many drakes and other serpents had taken refuge here and there was food aplenty for them to survive. He would often spend his time meditating and writing and in time, his hot warrior blood made way for wisdom as he cared for his draconian friends. Here, they prospered, away from the machinations of the Gods.

True to his word, Gwyn had indeed set about changing the order of the world. Harnessing the First Flame, he had divided existence into Dark and Light, Life and Death. The few dragons still left quickly died at the hands of his faithful knights and the wretched Seath was awarded a dukedom for his part in it. Anor Londo grew rapidly and many other regions started forming around filled with humankind, who had taken to worshipping the Gods. They built their cities, their statues and formed their armies. All praised Gwyn and his brethren for the bounty the Gods had created, blissfully unaware that it would one day end.

End it did indeed. All happened exactly as Velka had claimed and the fire had shown him. The First Flame faded and as humanity was tied to it, it was soon dragged down with it. Whispers reached him of a terrible curse that refused to let its victims die and rendered them bloodthirsty and insane. They were rounded up and sent to asylums and in the lands of Oolacile and Izalith, an ancient evil had swallowed the land during cruel experiments to find a cure. The world Gwyn had built was crumbling and even after all that had happened between his father and him, Gwynnant’s heart could not help but go out to him.

That was why, after centuries, he had gone back to Anor Londo. Even though he knew the Gods would likely not be happy to see him, he missed them. The only relative he had visited all these years was Priscilla, his beloved niece of sorts. 

He had learned of her existence through the whispers of the drakes, telling him odd stories about how Gwynevere had birthed a half-dragon child. That Gwyn had banished her to a living painting made by the famed Ariamis when she was but a few years of age and left her there with all other things the Gods feared. It had made him curious enough that he pulled all the strings necessary to secretly commission a second painting from the mad genius and he used it himself from his home on Archdragon Peak to visit this new family member. 

At first, the poor, abandoned girl had been frightened of him. She seemed to fear the Gods and was not used to being treated kindly. It had taken him a few visits to explain he was her relative and meant her no harm. He would bring her sweets and gifts, tell her stories about the dragons and taught her to read and write as she grew up. He had even offered her to come live at Archdragon Peak with him, yet she had politely declined for fear of the outside world and he had contented himself with simply visiting her. This child of his sister’s blood and Seath’s experiments was dearer to him than words could explain and while visiting her made his days brighter, it didn’t alleviate his longing for his family.

He missed his father, mother and sister and was eager to meet the younger sibling who had been born long after he left. He missed Faraam and wondered if his former lover still thought about him. He wanted to see Ornstein again, wondering how his friend was doing and how the Four Knights were faring under his leadership during these dark times. 

So, as the end of the world approached, he had left Archdragon Peak on the Stormdrake and headed for the City of the Gods. The journey was long and anything but pleasant. As he and his companion traveled the land, he saw how the outskirts were brimming with Hollows. He saw clerics capturing them and rounding them up, if not outright killing them. He saw ruined cities, claimed by fire and water, and few stray drakes roamed the wilderness looking for prey. It worried him and he shuddered at the thought of what he would find in the place he once called home.

Indeed, when he finally reached Anor Londo, it was nothing like how he remembered it. The city was quiet and deserted, forgotten splendor bathed in twilight. He felt a strange evil emanate from it, even from a distance, and he insisted that his beloved Stormdrake stay on the outskirts, safe from harm. The drake agreed and it was very reluctantly that he decided to brave the city alone.

It felt like he was walking through a graveyard. Gone were the days of joy and hopefulness. The houses stood as empty shells, the marketplaces decrepit and deserted. The City of Gods was fading with the Flame that was tied to its fortune and a splendorous skeleton was a skeleton nonetheless.

The resident Fire Keeper, however, was still there. She was an oddly chatty sort considering the circumstances and more than willing to enlighten him about the state of the city. She talked of Seath’s increasing madness and the decrepit state of the world. His sister was still here, she told him, reclining in the Cathedral and waiting for her subjects to return. She also mentioned a faction called The Blades of the Darkmoon and spoke quite fondly of its leader. Gwyndolin, the sibling he had never met. 

Glad to hear that there was still a relative left in this forsaken city, he thanked her profusely and took off to where she said he was. He ignored her insistence that the royal siblings would rather not receive visitors, instead making his way up to the cathedral via the thankfully still functioning lever system. 

His journey was mostly unopposed. There were Sentinels posted both in front of the cathedral and inside of it. When they saw him, they quickly approached in a threatening manner. It took him but a few swipes with his spear and lightning to dispatch them and he marched on, determined to reach the very heart of the building.

Yet as he planned to cross another room and make his way to the elevators, two figures blocked his way. One was a larger than average man, dressed from head to toe in bronze armor that gave him an oddly portly appearance. The other was a face he remembered all too well…

“Gwynnant…”

Gwynnant remained expressionless as he acknowledged his old student. “Ornstein…”

He could feel how the lion knight stared at him from behind his splendorous helmet. A series of emotions seemed to run through him. For just a fraction of a moment, he almost hoped that perhaps his friend would give in to those. That this reunion would briefly be happy, just for old time’s sake. 

Unfortunately, just like that, whatever sentiment the knight captain experienced was soon replaced by faithful duty once more. “You are not welcome here.”

The former God of War was proud how well he contained his own feelings. “I can tell. Yet I am here to see my sister. Kindly move aside.”

Ornstein shook his head. “I cannot do such a thing. Smough and I are under strict orders to keep the Princess from receiving any visitors. So you must leave.”

Despite the obvious politeness in his voice, Gwynnant could taste the underlying threat and was not impressed, especially not now he knew the identity of the other man. “A banished prince I may be, but a prince still. I will take no orders from you, let alone from that horror scraping his food out of my Father’s dungeons. I will see my sister, with your approval or without it.”

Almost immediately, the other two men raised their weapons. A deep, menacing growl emanated from deep within Smough’s armor. Clearly, his insults had hit their mark, but he couldn’t care less. He gripped his weapon, gleaning the situation. Brave as Ornstein was, it was clear he was hesitating and the executioner even more so. With good reason. Having trained the captain of the Four Knights, Gwynnant knew all his weaknesses and an angry brute suited only for torturing was even less of a fight.

He smirked, wanting to appear more malicious than he truly felt. “Are you willing to test your mettle, Ornstein? We both know this will be your ultimate test then. As for the royal executioner, I will pronounce him a knight myself if he is truly courageous enough to face a worthy enemy.”

The lion knight did not respond and neither did Smough. Both stood there, clearly unsure of what to do, and the former God of War grabbed his chance. He simply walked around them, completely unconcerned, and made his way to the elevators. As he got on one, he sent the two men a smirk, one he had to force through a haze of sadness.

“I will make it quick. As you were.”

With that, the men disappeared from view and he turned his mind to what waited ahead. How would his sister respond to him? Would she be happy to see him? Or had her opinion of him soured as much as Ornstein’s? The latter possibility affected him more than he wanted to, but he figured he would soon find out.

Still, as he stepped into the Chamber of the Princess, nothing could prepare him for what he saw. He had expected a flurry of emotions upon seeing his younger sister again. Yet what he had not expected to feel was horror.

The woman in front of him was not Gwynevere. He knew that the moment he set eyes upon her. This woman was much larger, comically so, beyond any of the normal proportions the Gods were. Her clothes were closer to those of a strumpet rather than a Goddess and her appearance lacked all of the natural, dignified beauty he remembered his sister having. This woman was a joke, a monstrous facsimile of the Lady of Sunlight.

When she opened her mouth, speaking to him without so much of a hint of recognition or remotely resembling Gwynevere’s voice, he knew enough. Whoever this woman was, she was not his sister. She was an illusion, conjured by a sick mind. Anger filled every inch of him and he quietly cursed the imposter before storming away. He headed back down the elevator, where he was instantly faced with Ornstein and Smough once more. The captain of the Four Knights seemed in a fouler mood than before.

“You had your audience. Now leave.”

Unable to control himself any longer, Gwynnant spoke. “Ornstein. That woman you are guarding… It is not my sister.”

The lion knight seemed stunned for a moment, but repeated his command. “Leave, Gwynnant.”

The man’s cold response took the former God of War aback. Of course, he could understand that his presence was problematic to his former student and he had not exactly been courteous to him. Still, he could not possibly walk away without trying to tell his old friend that the woman he was guarding was an imposter.

“You are guarding an illusion. I know my sister and the woman reclining in the room above is not her! Someone is fooling you and Smough.” 

The knight snarled. “Do you take me for a fool? You should know better, Gwynnant. Especially since foolishness is your specialty.”

Gwynnant frowned in response. “Perhaps so, but I do recognize the ones I grew up with. Something is not right, Ornstein. Please, listen to me, if only for the friendship that was.”

He could feel the knight glare at him, his anger rising. “How dare you call upon old friendships, when you forsook us for the dragons? Your word is less than dirt to me! I said you should leave! Have you not brought us enough misery? The Four Knights are gone except me and your siblings are all I have left to protect! Leave us in peace and desecrate not your father’s memory, resting at his tomb!”

Those words froze the blond-haired male where he stood, mouth agape and turning white as a sheet. “My father…has passed away? What happened? Tell me!”

The captain threateningly raised his spear. “I owe you no such thing! Now go! Leave Anor Londo before anyone else catches wind of your presence and we will strike you down!”

By now, Smough was ready to lunge at him with his hammer as well. There wasn’t a doubt in the former God of War’s mind that he could simply smite the up-jumped executioner where he stood, but for Ornstein’s sake, he decided not to. Despite the bad blood between them, he still cared for his student and he didn’t want to be the one to end his life. So for once in his life, he decided to walk away from a fight, simply born out of wisdom that had come to him with age.

Still, the news that his father was dead shook him deeply. How on earth could Gwyn die? He had always deemed his father indestructible. What kind of fate could have befallen the King of Gods that would take his life?

Those anguished thoughts determined his next destination. Putting as much distance between him and the cathedral as he could, he used the lever system to head down to the catacombs. It was here that he knew honorable warriors of Anor Londo would be buried and if anything, his father had considered himself a warrior. He had to be buried there.

At first, it seemed he had no luck. He saw endless rows of graves dedicated to knights. Still, as he stood in the chamber, he noticed a strange draft coming from a place where there should be a wall. He soon singled out a statue, touching it with his spear to dissipate the illusion and confidently entered the pathway behind it. 

As soon as he set foot in the seemingly endless hallway, a voice rang out. “What foolishness! A wanderer such as thyself trespasseth into the tomb of the Great Lord? I am the Darksun, Gwyndolin! Thou shalt not go unpunished!”

His heart skipped a beat. Gwyndolin… That name left no doubt in his mind. This person speaking to him had to be his younger sibling.

The former God of War showed a small smile, straightening his back. “I have no intentions to intrude or cause harm, he who calls himself the Darksun. I only wish to look upon thee and wish to know what became of the man we both call our father.”

There was a long silence and he quietly waited. He wondered if anyone had ever told his younger sibling about him. This child was born long after he was banished, after all. It seemed his statues had been torn down wherever he went, as if the Gods had tried to erase him from history. It might well be that this person had grown up without even knowing of the existence of an older brother.

Then, finally, the voice was heard again. “Thou mayest proceed.”

Glad to have gained his sibling’s permission, Gwynnant started walking again. He quickly passed through the corridor, practically running. He stepped through the passageway into the next room, yet nothing prepared him for what he saw.

It was not the odd God he looked upon that disturbed him. Even though he, still obvious to the former God of War despite the man’s feminine garments, was somewhat deformed, he still bore the innate traits of Gwyn’s blood. It was rather the location itself, with the splendid coffin bathed in twilight pouring in from the windows, that filled him with dread.

His sibling seemed to read his thoughts. “Art thou the one I should call “brother”?”

He nodded in response and the younger man nodded, switching to a less formal tone. “I am Gwyndolin. I was born to our father after he disowned you. You are either quite brave or quite foolish to show your face here.”

In any other case, Gwynnant might have sought malice behind it and indeed, Gwyndolin seemed like someone thoroughly capable of that. Yet in this case, his voice only showed amusement. The former God of War figured he might as well indulge it.

“I am rather quite curious, actually. I know the First Flame is fading, but I have heard naught but whispers about the fate that befell my family. What happened to our father and sister? Or the other Gods for that matter?”

His brother gave him a sad smile. “The Gods have all left this place long ago. Our beloved sister eloped with Flann and the rest of them fled soon after. Faraam, the God of War, was the last to go. And quite possibly the one most plagued by guilt.”

His ears perked at hearing his former lover’s name. “What became of him?”

“Our Lord Father ordered him to quash the rebellion led by Bishop Havel. The man had grown dissatisfied with Lord Gwyn turning a blind eye to the atrocities committed by Seath and the Gods’ inability to deal with the Age of Dark. Faraam obeyed, imprisoning Havel and killing most of his followers, but not without it breaking his spirit. He left in the night, directing a prayer for forgiveness to those he slaughtered and then to you, for some reason.”

Those words had Gwynnant fall silent and Gwyndolin looked at him curiously. “Was he…close to you at some point?”

Before he fully realized it, he nodded. “More than you will ever know…”

The breaking of his voice probably gave away what the relationship was exactly, but his younger sibling chose not to comment and continued. “As for our father, I assume you have heard that he is dead?”

He nodded breathlessly and Gwyndolin sighed. “So the rumor goes. The truth is far more disheartening. We could not find a way to stop the First Flame from fading. The Witch of Izalith tried and failed. Oolacile got swallowed by the Abyss when its citizens turned to the primeval man for answers. It ate away at our father and in the end, he saw no choice but offer himself to the fire.”

Every inch of blood in Gwynnant’s veins turned to ice that very moment. One look at his younger brother’s face and he knew exactly what it meant. His father was not dead. He had submitted himself to a fate far worse…

Bile started forming in his throat. He knew things would turn bad once the First Flame faded, but even his darkest thoughts could not conjure this horrid truth. His father, stubborn but brilliant, burning alive in an eldritch fire with an eternity ahead before he died. Even though he betrayed him a lifetime ago, the former God of War would have never wished something so horrible upon his own sire. Nor did he wish upon his younger brother this awfully lonely fate.

“So you are here all alone, in a dying land.”

His sibling smiled. “Do not feel too much pity for me. I remain here to take care of Anor Londo, as our father desired, with my consort and child. I maintain the illusion of sunlight and of our sister up above, for few people would respect a God such as myself. I await a solution to link the fire and I think it shall come to me quite soon.”

Gwynnant gave him a strange look and he smiled. “Thou who art Undead, art chosen. In thine exodus from the undead asylum, maketh pilgrimage to the land of Ancient Lords. When thou ringeth the Bell of Awakening, the fate of the Undead thou shallt know.”

All the older male could do was give him a confused look and he explained. “A lovely prophecy, do you not think so? I conceived it long ago with the primordial serpents. It is bound to draw some hollowing humans to Lordran and when we find one strong enough, it shall replace our father in the Kiln. The Age of Fire shall continue, I assure you of that.”

As the younger man spoke, so full of confidence and pride, his older brother suddenly felt very ill. His brother’s voice was higher and much softer, but for a second, he swore he could hear his father talking. The same arrogant folly, the same delusion of invincibility. Gwyndolin was truly no wiser than Gwyn and even if a strong enough soul would keep the Flame alight, it would always fade again and the cycle would start over.

Suddenly, Gwynnant wondered why he had even bothered to come here. What had he hoped to find anyway? The horrible things he had seen eons ago were coming to pass and the remaining Gods and their servants were still blind in the face of it. To try and reason with them was like shouting at the storm and he had long since tired of doing so. 

Gwyndolin noticed his shift in mood and he cocked his head, speaking almost mockingly. “So, my dear brother, have you found what you were looking for? Or did you hope to find an ownerless crown and city instead?”

That suggestion, even if it was perhaps said in jest, was all it took for Gwynnant to finally reach his limit. Giving his sibling a sad glance, he knelt down at the grave. He conjured a straight sword out of sunlight, the very first magic Gwyn had ever taught him, and placed it in front of the coffin. He then knelt down, uttering a small prayer, before getting back up and nodding at Gwyndolin.

“Take my father’s crown and do what you please with it. Take Anor Londo. I have no need nor desire for either. Farewell, my brother. I hope you will find what you are looking for. It is time for me to leave once more.”

It was with those words that he left the Catacombs and, soon after, Anor Londo. He found the Stormdrake at the edge of the city and climbed on his back to commence the long journey back home. As far as he was concerned, he was never coming back again.

Yet once he returned, he found Archdragon Peak only brought him solace for a brief time. Meditation did nothing for him anymore and even his visits to Priscilla left him mired in grief. He tended to his dragons, trying to comfort them as the world grew darker, but he found it harder each day. A darkness had come over his soul and he could not shake it.

Despite his best efforts, his thoughts remained in Anor Londo. He kept mulling over his father’s fate, the flight of his sister, fellow Gods and lover and the doomed plan his younger brother had conceived. He could not shake the feeling that he was hiding from it all, nothing more than a coward for standing on the sidelines while the world came crashing down.

Still, what could he do? If the Gods had not figured out how to relight the Flame permanently, how could he? He had never been the wisest God nor the most introspective one. If beings of Light, the very owners of the Lord’s Souls, did not know how to stop the Dark, what chance did he have?

That thought suddenly caused his mind to still. Light and Dark, two sides of the same coin but never unified. One occurred in the absence of the other, too different to reconcile. It was then that a strange idea occurred to him. If Light was indeed the absence of Dark, then how could the Gods possibly understand it?

It was at that moment of realization that his heart felt both heavy and light at the same time. There was perhaps a way he could stop this. Stop all of it before it was too late. Something that would save his beloved Stormdrake, his niece Priscilla and even his brother and all of humanity from a damned world. Yet if he wished to accomplish it, he would have to make the ultimate sacrifice.

He had to relinquish his own Lord’s Soul.

The notion alone frightened him out of his wits. He was born a God, a being who could not die of old age or go hollow. He could barely even imagine what it was like to live with the fear of either one happening.

Still, the nightmares about the future did not abate and after thinking it over for a long time, he felt there was no choice left. He would have to give up immortality and his status as a God. He would have to go out into the world and find a way to avert disaster. He would have to taste the Dark, in order to bring Light back to the world.

Having made that faithful decision, Gwynnant prepared for his last days at Archdragon Peak. He visited Priscilla one final time and told her of his plans. He spent as much time as he could with the Stormdrake and asked his saddened companion to take care of the others in his absence. He also beseeched it to look after his Lord’s Soul, saying that he hoped against hope that he would return here once more. The drake solemnly pledged to do all these things and with that out of the way, he was ready to accept mortality.

He had already made the proper preparations. The drakes had roamed the land and provided him with human armor and weapons, mostly scavenged from Astora. It consisted of chainmail, a large round shield, a straight sword, iron boots, leggings, a tunic, a talisman to perform miracles and a peculiar helmet that reminded him a lot of a bucket. In order to make these items his own, he had decorated the shield, talisman and tunic with a design of his own creation; a sentient sun, perhaps the one thing he hoped to find once human. Still, to get there was a sacrifice in itself.

To tear that Soul from his body was the single most painful thing he had ever felt in his life. It was worse than any wounds he had gained in a fight, worse than the loss he felt when his family banished him. It was agony in its purest form and to feel the Dark come in was the most frightening thing a conscious mind could comprehend.

Still, he lived at the end of it. He left his Lord's Soul in-between the paws of the Stormdrake and sat there quietly as his body twisted and changed. He felt smaller now, somewhat weaker. It frightened him. He had always prided himself on his strength. Would he be able to cope if this act made him lose himself entirely.

That fear, however, was somewhat abated when he looked at his reflection in the shield. The face he saw was not a complete stranger. He still had blue eyes, long blond hair and a muscular build. He still looked enough like his old self not to feel lost in this new body and he felt he could settle for that. Time was ticking and it was time for him to return to Lordran and find a way to permanently stop the Age of Dark from coming to be. 

He once again bid his farewell to the Stormdrake, holding it close and biting back tears at the thought he might never see his friend again. He then picked up his sword and shield, putting his odd new helmet on his head and made his way down the mountain. He practically trembled as he did, feeling his friend watch him as he left, afraid of what awaited him in a broken land.

He was no longer Gwynnant, Firstborn of Gwyn and heir of the Sunlight, who was stricken from the annals of history. From now on, he would be Solaire. A strange man from Astora, who remained an adherent to the Warriors of Sunlight even though the covenant and God it was devoted to were long since disgraced. He had no doubt that if anyone asked him to state his business, they would consider him mad, but he could not care less. 

He was a man on a mission. A God who stepped down from his throne to save humankind. He accepted the Dark, hoping to vanquish his enemy by understanding it and find a new way to light the world anew. Perhaps, he hoped, that would be the key. Perhaps, he could do as his new identity would claim and find his own sun.


	5. The Atoner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solaire of Astora fights for the survival of humanity.

“Hello, father…”

He had forgotten how many times he had said it now, the man now known as Solaire of Astora. It was an ever repeating mantra now, said without any emotion or horror left. He had grown numb at the sight of a burning Gwyn, hollowed and but a shadow of his former self. He had seen it too many times now and his tears had long since dried up.

The fading of the First Flame had affected the world tremendously, more severely than he could have ever feared. Time itself seemed to unravel as it transformed to embers. A million different timelines seemed to slip in and out of each other, leaving him confused and disorientated many times.

He met many others along the way. Undead who had contracted the Darksign like him, who also fought to keep from going hollow. They all pursued their own agendas as well and every now and then, their paths would cross and they would help or hinder each other in achieving their goals.

After a while, he had learned he could manipulate these timelines somewhat. He could place summoning signs to move in and out of these worlds to assist others and sometimes, call in others to assist him. He used this method to learn more about this ever-shifting land and the effects of the fading Flame. He would reward any person assisting him with Sunlight Medals, pure slabs of gold he conjured from thin air, and blessed them as he would have done in his days as a God. This way, he hoped, he would find a way to halt the Age of Dark.

His search took him everywhere. He first traveled to the Undead Asylum, looking for answers. From there, he traveled from the Undead Parish to Anor Londo, from Blighttown and Darkroot Forest to the Lost Ruins of Izalith. Everywhere he went, he scoured for research, for clues. For just that little something that might avert catastrophe. 

As he shifted through the timelines, he saw many outcomes. He saw comrades live and die, eventually turning hollow. He saw betrayal and murder from those who called themselves religious, as well as deep loyalty from those who swore themselves to his covenant. In some, he saw his brother Gwyndolin slain and in others, his beloved niece Priscilla murdered just because someone could. He even saw himself once, lost in madness, his mind taken over by a parasite roaming the ruins of fiery Izalith. All of these images weighed heavily upon him, but he nonetheless pressed on, hoping for salvation.

Time and again, he fought. He vanquished the same enemies over and over, in his timeline and others. Wherever he went, he looked for information, for ancient knowledge Gods and dragonkind may have documented well before him, that might tell him how to find his own sun. 

After a while, the slaying became second nature to him, as it once had been. Even those who were once close to him evoked no reaction. It didn’t matter to him when he slayed Ornstein and Nito and the Witch of Izalith were little more than mercy kills. He even dared say he took a perverse pleasure in ending Seath’s life multiple times. Even the tears he shed upon seeing his father’s hollowed form were gone around the third time he ended him. All these people, ones he’d once known and loved, had been lost long ago and their deaths might provide him with the answer he needed.

His search was a lonely one, oftentimes unbearably so. Ridiculed by some, rejected by others in his goal to avert disaster, he often felt isolated beyond words. He brushed it off best as he could, cherishing the few friends he made, moving along on nothing more than determination and hope.

Yet that hope, it seemed, was eventually in vain. No matter where he searched, in no matter how many timelines, there was no answer. No solution. No way to return to a world of neutral gray. No way to permanently stop the Flame from dying or create another sun to light the world. It was destined to follow the same cycle for eternity. For humanity to keep sacrificing itself onto it to maintain an Age of Fire.

He had tried to deny that possibility for as long as he could. After all, if it was true, than his sacrifice had all been for nothing. He would die and so would the few he still loved. The Flame’s hold on this world would remain and nothing would change.

Still, as time trudged on, he started to slowly realize that it was indeed so. The writings he found would remain the same, the deaths he caused would not affect anything. He was as doomed by the Flame as everyone else was, just as much subject to Gwyn’s sin of linking it to humanity. Fighting fate was sapping his soul, day by day, timeline by timeline and in the end, even the former God of War had lost his faith and will to fight.

It was why he was here now. In the Kiln of the First Flame once more, the one from his own world this time. He stood there, sword gripped in his right hand and shield in the left, facing the man who had started it all.

Once again, he noted that Gwyn was not like other Hollows. He was hardly raving or flailing, still maintaining his poise and skill even as he burned. He smiled wryly at that, wondering if he had ever expected anything else of his sire. Of course he maintained his dignity, even when experiencing a fate worse than death.

As the husk of a man charged towards him, as he had done so many times, a million memories went through his head. Memories of his father holding him, comforting him when he was a child and had bad dreams. Of his father teaching him how to use a weapon. Of them playing and being taught about the world around him. Gwyn was a good man once, a father who loved him in his own way, and even now, he fought not to forget those times.

The former Lord of Sunlight lunged at him and he easily sidestepped. He had fought this fight before, enough that it held few surprises for him. He knew better than to underestimate his sire, but any emotions of fear or apprehension had long since been dulled. This was a dance of death, every step known and rehearsed.

Did his father recognize him, he wondered? Was he so fierce in combat because he knew he was looking upon the son who had forsaken him? Or had he already lost all memories of his previous life, save for how to hold his sword? He truly didn’t know and frankly, at this point, he no longer intended to ask.

So he fought, doing what he did best. He matched his father’s moves step for step, his swings stroke for stroke. He was relentless and without hesitation. He retaliated for every wound and scrape, determined to end the madness once and for all.

His father got more aggressive the longer the fight went on, yet he didn’t back down. It wasn’t lost on him how indicative this was of their relationship. Velka had been wrong to some extent, he now realized. He was his father in some ways. Both were proud and stubborn, both willing to fight for their ideals. Even if he had not thrown in his lot with the dragons, they would have clashed sooner or later.

Another fiery blow came down on him and he raised his shield to withstand it. The strength of it nearly knocked him to the ground and he rolled away when Gwyn brought down his weapon once more. Seeing a gap in his defense, the smaller man charged in to slash at him, determined to end it.

He could feel his muscles burning, his mind aching. This was it. The final dance. The end of his journey and the only way he could end it was to put the man who sired him out of his misery in his own timeline.

So he kept driving his sword into the husk. He rolled away when the man swung or grasped at him, only to get back in the fray the moment he could. He ignored any sounds the man made, simply determined to do as much damage as he could. Eventually, his sharp steel found his father’s heart and he knew then and there that he had won.

Then, finally, Gwyn fell. His dying body collapsed onto the floor and whatever little light was left in the Kiln fizzled out. The former God of War watched in silence, before putting away his sword and approaching his fallen foe.

He knelt down beside him and took his hand. He put his free hand on the man’s shoulder, trying to calm him as he passed away. No matter his faults and sins, the lord of Sunlight was still his father and he would not let him spend his final moments alone and in agony. 

“Farewell, father. May you find peace in whatever comes after death…”

It was at hearing those words that Gwyn stilled. For a moment, Gwynnant could feel how he stared at him, those eyeless sockets widening. His lipless mouth tried to form words and Gwynnant felt the grip on his hand tightening for the briefest moment, before going limp and life finally left the older man.

For the first time during the endless years on this quest, he felt like someone was twisting a knife in his heart. Had his father recognized him after all, in his final breath? Part of him, the part that refused to get lost in the identity of Solaire, hoped so. He _had_ to hope so. If not, then his fruitless quest had yielded nothing at all…

Once he was certain Gwyn was truly gone, he made the final preparations. He lay the man down in a dignified pose, placing his sword upon his chest. He then crossed the dead man’s arms over it, making his hands grip the weapon. There were no eyes left for him to close, so Gwynnant instead took to covering his father’s face with the fabric of his talisman. It would have to do as he was unable to arrange a burial. He deserved to be left in a respectful manner, befitting of the King of Gods.

After performing and uttering the proper rites, he got to his feet again. Once again, the futility of the situation hit him hard. His father was gone and the Flame was still dying.

Furious, he turned to embers that remained, his voice a snarl. “He is dead now. Burned up to provide you fuel. You have attained exactly what you wanted!”

His voice reverberated through the Kiln with no answer. Not that he had expected anything else. The Flame had no voice as it was not a force humanity could comprehend. All it could do was burn and fizzle and take the humanity Gwyn linked to it with it.

Absentmindedly, Gwynnant sifted through the ashes, catching the few embers that remained lit. He remembered how, long ago, he stared into this fire, when there was only a cave and no kiln. How he had seen this terrible future in the flames and how he had been unable to stop it from happening…

Just as he had done then, he stared at the embers, though he didn’t expect to see anything this time. A fading fire held few secrets, after all. Still, he kept on looking, if only to temporarily forget.

Then, after what seemed like the longest time, he noticed something. A small image, bathed in orange, red and yellow that he had never seen before. Having nothing else left, he watched it with interest, curious to see what the Flame would show him now.

Again, he saw the cycle come and go. Kingdoms were built and crumbled, time itself got fractured and lands became transitory. Powerful souls were led to the Flame once this occurred, presented as fuel to maintain the Age of Fire. Princes and kings, warriors, giants and monsters… All were greedily devoured by the Flame, staving off the inevitable just a bit longer.

He also saw many other things. He swore he could see his sister with her new husband, tending to her children before they went out into the world. His brother holding his consort and daughter, before dying to defend them. Priscilla safe in the world of Ariamis. He even saw Faraam, embracing a man he recognized as Nahr Alma, the God of Blood. They all seemed so far away now and he wondered how much longer their happiness would last. 

Yet then, out of nowhere, there was another. A man, dressed in worn armor, standing in the Kiln of the First Flame. He looked like the Darksign was upon him, but his skin was flakey and ashen as well. He was an undead unlike anything Gwynnant had seen, even during his travels as Solaire, and he could only watch in fascination.

The man reached out to the fire, but the Flame did not devour him. Instead, he reached his hands into it. Gwynnant could only watch transfixed as he seemed to wrest the fire from its very foundation, before bringing it up to his chest. It seemed to enter his body, a process that looked quite painful, but after several moments, the man stood up once more and walked away.

The last thing the former God of War saw a city. He recognized it as New Londo, but it didn’t look like how he remembered it. It was a place of light and bounty, a kingdom ruled over by mankind. It was a peaceful place and above it shone the sun that Solaire had not been able to find.

For the first time since he started his quest, Gwynnant suddenly found himself at peace. The fear and desperation he had felt for several years now melted away, replaced by true hope he had not dared to feel before. It was a good feeling, one most men did not get to experience during their lifetime.

He stared at the Flame, smiling. “Your hold will not be forever. There will be others, centuries from now. Your fading and flaring will create a new kind of Undead, capable of harnessing you alongside the Dark. Your tyranny will end that day and this world will be free from the cycle.”

With those words, he let go off the embers and rose. He walked up to the coiled sword in the middle of the Kiln. Taking a deep breath, he cast aside all doubt. Now, he knew exactly what to do.

“I will make sure you will burn a little longer. For Priscilla. For my dragon brethren. For my brother and sister. For Faraam. For all the brave Undead I met on my travels and humankind that did not deserve your yoke.”

He reached out, giving the Flame an almost defiant grin. “I will be there to guard you and I will be there to see you subjugated.”

As soon, as he reached out, the fire flared up once more. The flames bit into his fingers and hands, snaking all the way up his arms to the rest of his body. It hurt immensely, more than any normal fire would, but he took it without uttering a word.

He would carry this burden, for all those he loved and would inherit the world after him. He could not undo the mistakes his father made, but he could make sure no one else would suffer from them. As such, he had taken his father’s place, fuel for the Flame until a next age. It was rather poetic in a twisted way. He truly was the heir of Sunlight, after all.

As the Flame started to burn out of control, searing him to the bone as they filled the entire Kiln, he closed his eyes. It was over now. He had fulfilled his duty to this world, allowing it survive and stave off the Age of Dark. He had _become_ the sun he had sought and for now, that was enough.

Gwynnant, God of War and Solaire of Astora died that day, but the man who was both waited until another would replace him. That person would come eventually and many more would inherit the Flame after him. Still, he now knew that his suffering would be long, but not eternal. The cycle would be broken, by that Ashen Man who would usurp the fire. Then, he would be relieved of his burden and when his time came, he knew he would be truly at peace with death.


	6. Epilogue: The Nameless King

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A familiar face returns to Archdragon Peak.

There was a heavy storm in the air tonight. Yellow lightening crackled across the sky. Heavy rain poured from the heavens. Dark clouds blotted out a fading sun. It was as if the earth itself shook and trembled in anticipation of things to come.

After centuries, something stirred on Archdragon Peak. After centuries of being inhabited by naught but drakes and serpents, an unknown entity awakened. It rose on the highest peak of the remote mountain, its voice flowing together with the thunder up above.

The Stormdrake woke from his slumber. He sniffed the air, his eyes widening. His body tensed and he rose up from his nest, spreading his wings as he flew to the source of the sound. Happy screeches left his mouth, knowing exactly what the noise meant.

His friend had returned.

Indeed, when the creature reached the peak, he found a humanoid there. A tall, muscular creature with long, blond hair, just like he remembered his companion. It was here, right in the very spot where the God of War had left his Lord’s Soul all those centuries ago.

As he approached, however, the drake realized something was wrong. Once he got a good look at the being, he realized the man did not look as he should. His body looked as though it had been mummified, eyes gone from its sockets and barely fitting the golden armor and crown it had once again donned. The Stormdrake stepped back, a quiet shriek leaving his mouth.

This creature, so resembling his companion, was a Hollow.

Having long since learned to fear these beings, it tried to retreat. Flames started to form in his mouth, ready to attack the interloper should it be hostile. How it got here didn’t matter. All he knew was that he had to eradicate it.

Just then, the Hollowed man turned to him. Instantly, he dropped his weapon and calmly walked towards the drake with his arms outstretched. The Stormdrake moved back further, snapping at the humanoid with fire escaping from behind his teeth. Yet the man approached rapidly and it was not long before the beast felt his bony hands on his neck.

The drake stilled for a moment in fright, only to feel how the man started to stroke it affectionately. He then threw his arms around his head, nuzzling him tenderly and whispering words of endearment with his malformed mouth. It was there that the Stormdrake knew for certain. This man, however he had appeared in place of the Lord’s Soul, still had the memories of its previous owner. 

Emitting several contented noises, the drake pressed his head against the man’s body by way of greeting. It had been ages that he felt so happy. A dark time at Archdragon Peak had ended. The God of War had returned at last. How he looked now mattered not to him in the end. After several lonely centuries, his friend was back.

Meanwhile, the now nameless man felt the same. How he got here at Archdragon Peak was a mystery to him. He just woke up here, formed from a soul long since abandoned by a previous owner. A soul that still held many memories, the foremost one telling him that he immensely loved this creature that came to greet him.

As such, he mounted his back without hesitation when he offered. He felt a familiar sense of freedom and euphoria as the Stormdrake soared across the sky. He felt weightless and unworried, embracing the wind and rain and manipulating the lightning that flashed all around him. 

Yes, this was his. All of it. This little corner of the world was his to enjoy, alongside this creature who was his friend. He recalled having been happy here somehow. He was certain he could be now.

He didn’t protest as the drake went for a rest at an old temple much further down the mountain. As the creature rested and scavenged for food, he took the time to look around this forgotten home. He somehow remembered so much of it and found it soothing that this strange place put him at ease.

It was only then that he noticed it. A strange, large shiny object lying about not too far away from him. He cautiously walked up to it, curious to see what it was as it seemed so out of place in this land of ancient stone and endless sky.

When he got close, he saw it was armor. It was ornate and bronze-colored, indicating its owner was someone of stature. The helmet was shaped like a lion’s head and it looked old and neglected, as if the person whom it once belonged to had neglected it immensely before abandoning it here.

The hollowed man didn’t understand why, but he suddenly felt immense grief come over him. Something deep inside told him he had known the owner of this armor, once upon a time, and cared for him deeply. 

How had he arrived here, he wondered? Had he come looking for him, then left? If so, then why? Had he merely wanted to visit an old friend? Or was he looking for something else entirely, revenge or forgiveness perhaps? He could not possibly tell and as the man had long since gone, he would never know the answer.

All he knew, through no knowledge of his own, is that the man had come from a terrible place. A place beyond this mountain, where the world died over and over. Just thinking about it shook him to his core. He could practically feel that darkness gnawing at the edges of his domain and it made him determined to stay as far away from it as possible.

By now, the Stormdrake had scurried up beside him. He reached out to pet it again, staring at the corpse and armor for another long moment before turning to the creature again. He climbed back onto his shoulders, telling it to bring him back to their home at the top.

Home…

That sounded about right to him. This was his domain and that of the Stormdrake, their kingdom of stone, sky, rain and lightning. He was a Nameless King now, a hollowed creatures with the memories of another, but a king nonetheless and this was his kingdom.

He had no desire to venture outside of it anymore. Based on the fleeting memories swimming through his head, he owed the world beyond nothing anymore. He was free to do exactly as he desired, to roam the skies with dragonkind, and that was exactly what he would do here at Archdragon Peak.

Here, he would remain, until the end of the world came around once more.


End file.
